Thursday, January 12, 2017


 We talk of how the dog, now young,
will slow with time, how age will diminish
his ambition, no longer will he wander
up the wild scent paths.
We say he will learn to stand at thresholds,
bearing those mingled odours:
the perfumes of chaos, rivalry and escape.
He’ll grow out of digging up the neighbours’ gardens,
eating their garbage,
busting their screen doors and breaking into their houses,
bowling over their toddlers,
running with the other dogs in the street.
Time passes for all of us and one day
fox stink is just fox stink,
same as it always was,
but the appetite for it is gone.

We talk of the dog, sit on the deck,
eating crackers with cream cheese, and chips and dip.
The kids get rowdy in the pool. The trees 
are mirrored in the window glass.
The birds sing the evening up out of the river.
Clay, matter, time, stories: 
the smell of the river wafts up.

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